


State of Grace

by PixelByPixel, velociraptorerin



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Canon-Typical Poor Life Choices, Canon-Typical Violence, Catholic Matt Murdock, Enemies to Lovers, Foggy Nelson Is a Good Bro, Frank Castle Angst, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt Matt Murdock, Idiots in Love, Injury Recovery, M/M, Matt Murdock & Foggy Nelson Friendship, Matt Murdock Angst, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:26:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22898722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PixelByPixel/pseuds/PixelByPixel, https://archiveofourown.org/users/velociraptorerin/pseuds/velociraptorerin
Summary: Frank Castle and Matt Murdock don't have anything in common.Okay, sure, they both live in (and defend) Hell's Kitchen; since Frank has been helping out at St. Agnes Orphanage, they can both be found there on occasion, and they both talk to Sister Maggie (who thinks they're both idiots), but that's it. Absolutely.They definitely don't like each other.(Really.)
Relationships: Frank Castle & Margaret Murdock, Frank Castle/Matt Murdock, Margaret Murdock & Matt Murdock, Matt Murdock & Franklin "Foggy" Nelson
Comments: 32
Kudos: 280
Collections: Daredevil Bingo, Marvel Fluff Bingo, Marvel Rare Pair Bang 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here is our entry for the [Marvel Rarepair Bang](https://marvelrarepairbang.tumblr.com/). Many thanks to [mcl4r3n](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcl4r3n/) for making this easy and fun (and omg the art! be sure to check out the main piece near the end of chapter 1) and to [titC](https://archiveofourown.org/users/titC/) for wonderful beta skills. 
> 
> This fills my [Daredevil Bingo](https://pixelbypixelfanfic.tumblr.com/bingo) square for _I beat you_ and my [Marvel Fluff Bingo](https://pixelbypixelfanfic.tumblr.com/bingo) square for _realised feelings_.
> 
> Artist tumblr: <https://velociraptorerin.tumblr.com/>  
> Author tumblr: <https://pixelbypixelfanfic.tumblr.com/>

Frank Castle rarely turned to alcohol. Sure, he’d grab a beer with the guys when there were guys to grab beers with; as a rule, he didn’t really drink. It blunted his senses and while sometimes that was absolutely what he wanted, he usually preferred to stay sharp.

This was not one of those days. He’d gone to bed early, his days and nights thrown off-kilter by some recent late jobs, and then had woken up in a cold sweat just in time to see the sun setting through his window.

He’d felt them, held them in his arms. Maria and the kids. Fuck, he could smell her perfume.

He sat up, his breathing still ragged as he tried to shake off the nightmare; he just wanted it to go away, not even sure what _it_ was. Staggering to his feet, he managed the five steps to his kitchen and reached into the cupboard above his dish drain.

An industrial-sized bottle of ibuprofen, a box of salt that had been there when he moved in, and… there it was, except the bottle he’d stashed behind the salt was empty. Why the fuck had he put an empty bottle back in the cabinet? Maria had always told him not to do that.

Frank said a few choice profanities and then grabbed his shoes, glad he’d just fallen asleep in his clothes and so didn’t have to deal with getting dressed. One advantage of his weird schedule: even though he’d just woken up, it was evening. Nobody would even guess that he had climbed out of bed and gone right to Pop’s, the liquor store down the block.

The chill of the early evening air made Frank wish he hadn’t left his jacket back at his place, but he shrugged off the cold. It was a quick trip, then he’d be back… not home. It was where he lived, but it would never feel like home.

Shoving aside the memory of Maria’s smile, of the kids’ laughter, Frank got to the liquor store and reached for the cheapest thing that would help him find oblivion as quickly as possible. Unsurprisingly, considering the neighborhood and the general state of the world, it was the last bottle.

“Really, you had to pick that one?”

Frank didn’t bother to turn at the tart question from behind him. “Yeah.”

“You need it that badly?”

Frank didn’t think that deserved an answer. He headed for the register, though the woman persisted. “Because I ended up teaching CCD when Sister Mary Grace came down with a headache - highly suspect, how that keeps happening on Wednesdays - and the kids wanted to be anywhere but there. You ever deal with a roomful of sixth graders who don’t want to be learning catechism? I think I need it more than you do.”

Frank finally turned to see who had been haranguing him: a nun, older but not terrifyingly ancient in the way nuns could get. She came up to about his shoulder and looked pretty much done with the day.

He could relate, and he’d just rolled out of bed.

“Sounds like the kids aren’t the only ones who wanted to be somewhere else, Sister,” Frank replied. “From what I know about CCD, can’t say I blame any of you. But this would help?” He hefted the bottle, brows lifting.

“Irish coffee will,” the nun replied, unapologetic.

“Plenty of Irish whiskey over there.” Frank nodded toward the shelf.

The nun didn’t even look. “I want that one.”

Frank shook his head, smiling despite himself. “Why this one?”

“I like the brand.”

Frank had, in the past, consumed that particular brand of Irish whiskey and knew it to be the bottom of the barrel. “Thought lying was a sin. This stuff isn’t any good.”

The nun inclined her head in acknowledgment. “I like it because it reminds me of someone.”

Frank looked at her, really _looked_ , and saw the tense lines of her mouth, the fatigue around her eyes. He could pay a little more for another brand. “Fine,” he said, offering the bottle. “Here you go, Sister.”

She didn’t take it, and Frank extended it a little more. “Only if you come back with me and share that Irish coffee.” Frank started to shake his head, and she added, “I’m not taking no for an answer.”

Frank considered just buying his damn whiskey and leaving, but the thought of going back to his empty apartment suddenly seemed like too much. “Sure.” Her brows lifted. “I mean, yes. Thank you, Sister. But let me buy it, okay? Call it, uh, a donation to the church.”

That got him a quick smile. “Thank you, Mr. -?”

“Castiglione. Pete.” He offered a hand, briefly conscious of its roughness, how much bigger it was than the nun’s, but the hand she offered in return had its own share of calluses.

“Maggie.”

Joey at the register looked at Frank like he’d grown a second head; maybe people didn’t usually shake hands with nuns around Hell’s Kitchen. But his money still spent, so he bought the whiskey and gestured for the nun to lead the way.

Where she took him was not, surprisingly, to the church down the road, but rather to the orphanage next door to the church. Some of the kids were in the tiny yard out back, from the sounds of it, though a few were inside to give Maggie pleasant greetings and Frank wary or curious looks.

He nodded in response to the kids, _not_ thinking about how that one was the same age Lisa would be now, how another one had eyes just like Frankie’s. No, he followed the nun into the orphanage’s kitchen, where the coffee smelled like it had just finished brewing. Frank saw an empty bottle on the counter, twin to the one he carried, and had the image of the nun being all set for her Irish coffee and then realizing that she was out of the essential ingredient. Just that kind of day, he guessed.

He watched as the nun poured two cups of coffee and then he offered over the bottle. “Looks like you weren’t kidding about that brand loyalty,” he said, nodding at the empty.

The nun smiled as she took the bottle. “Wasn’t just trying to get a better deal on booze, no.”

“Now, I wasn’t saying that,” Frank protested. He scooped up the empty and tucked it in the recycling, watching with approval as the nun doctored the coffee with the whiskey and some cream. “That maple syrup?” he asked as she stirred the drinks.

“I like the flavor better.” She brought the cups over to the kitchen table and sat; Frank joined her, wrapping his hands around his mug. The warmth seeped into him, and Frank sat back a little, felt some of the tension ease from his shoulders.

He finally took a sip, and nodded. He hadn’t had maple syrup in Irish coffee before, but he liked it.

The nun seemed content to sit and drink in silence, and Frank liked that, too. No need to talk just to fill the air with words. She watched him, though, her eyes assessing. He let her look all she liked. No skin off his nose. The orphanage kitchen was warm and the sound of the kids playing in the back was just distant enough that if he closed his eyes, he could imagine…

“You Catholic?” she asked when half his drink was gone.

Frank opened his eyes. “Used to be.”

“Did you just drift away, or was there a reason?”

Frank rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. “Little bit of both. It was more important to my mother than to me, when I was a kid. Then when I had my own kids, y’know, it got more important.”

The nun smiled a little. “Many people come back to the church when they become parents. But you don’t look old enough for your kids to be grown. They teenagers now, think they know everything, don’t want to come to church anymore?”

Frank’s breath caught in his throat. He remembered a day when Lisa had been just a little bit of a thing, the first time she’d told him no. Maria had laughed a little, but kindly; she’d said it looked like someone had taken his favorite toy, and had asked Frank what he’d do when Lisa was a teenager and said no _all the time_.

He hadn’t said anything, and Lisa had climbed into his lap and squished his cheeks with her little hands, tugging at them until he smiled.

A hand on his arm startled him back into the present. He’d worried the nun; her brows had lowered a little and she watched him with concern.

“Sorry, Sister. My kids, they’re gone. Dead. And their mother.” He heard how flat his voice was, how quickly he said it. Probably made him sound like a monster, like he didn’t give a shit that his whole family, his whole _world_ was gone; he’d learned the hard way, though. That was how he had to say it, even now, or he’d break down; he sure as hell didn’t want to put that on the nun.

“I’m sorry.” She was. He could tell. Her voice held what sounded like real compassion, and not some nun act. She looked like she wanted to ask how it happened but she didn’t, and Frank was glad. If she’d asked, either Frank would have had to hedge his answer, which he didn’t want to do in a conversation with a nun, or he’d have to tell the truth. And if he did that… well, maybe she had been around then and had heard what had happened to his family, and would then know that his name wasn’t really Pete Castiglione.

So he just nodded and said, “Thanks.” He peered into his mug and added, “Good coffee.”

She smiled in response, though her expression was a little knowing, as if she was used to evasion in her conversations. Well, nuns got that, he guessed.

He took another sip and glanced around the room, the better to avoid the nun’s gaze. The kitchen could stand a coat of paint and some of the cabinet doors hung a little off-kilter. Frank got to his feet and dug his Leatherman out of his pocket, popping out the Phillips head. Like he’d guessed, the one cabinet door had just needed its screws tightened.

“You got a lot of stuff like this, little things that need to be fixed?”

She nodded. “Sister Marguerite used to take care of that sort of thing, but she’s getting on in years and we don’t really like her to get on a ladder anymore.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Frank replied, not quite wincing at the mental image of an elderly nun wobbling at the top of a ladder. “Well, if you put together a list, I could take a look. Maybe next week, Wednesday at about 3?”

The nun got it, and the corners of her eyes crinkled as she smiled. “So if Sister Mary Grace has another of her highly suspect headaches…”

Frank grinned. “You’ll be otherwise occupied, yes, ma’am.”

The nun’s smile widened. “Then I will see you next Wednesday.”

* * *

Frank hadn’t intended for it to be a regular thing, but the nun’s list wasn’t a short one. The first Wednesday, Sister Marguerite came to watch him work and Frank had uneasy flashbacks to Catholic school. After a few minutes, though, she nodded and tottered off, and Frank turned his attention to the task at hand.

Sister Maggie didn’t stand over him, which he appreciated, but she did check in on occasion. When a group of small kids drew too close, maybe interested in the tools Frank was using to repair a chair, Sister Maggie shooed them off.

“They were okay,” Frank said, straightening to take the glass of water Sister Maggie offered him. “Thanks.”

“You say that, but Mikey super-glued himself to a table twenty minutes ago.” She paused, then added, “How are you at tables?”

Frank shook his head, amused. “I’m okay with tables. Put it on the list. Frankie did that once, but it was a model rocket, not a table.”

“That happens here every year around science fair time.”

“Ha. Well, good to know things don’t change.”

“Frankie,” Sister Maggie said, her voice as gentle as it got. “Your son?”

Frank nodded, his gaze turning to the chair. He shouldn’t have used Frankie’s name, he _shouldn’t_ have; it had just slipped out. “Yeah.” Sandpaper. He’d need to take the chair out back and sand down that rough edge, so the kids didn’t hurt themselves on it. Thinking about sandpaper was easier than thinking about Frankie, about Lisa, about Maria.

“And you had another child. Children?”

Frank sighed, stopping his search for sandpaper. “Just Frankie and his sister. Lisa. Maria, she always wanted a big family, but two was enough for me. And after Frankie, she agreed that was enough.” More things he shouldn’t have said, but the nun was a good listener, not pushing too hard.

“He was a handful?”

“Oh, yeah. Don’t get me wrong, he was a good kid, but into everything. Walked at ten months, climbed out of his crib soon after that.” It was weird, talking about Frankie. Frank hadn’t done that in… well, a long time. It hurt a little, but it still felt good to remember Maria and the kids.

“Oh, no.” Sister Maggie shook her head and looked amused, though there was something else in her expression as well, a not-quite wistfulness that made Frank wonder what had inspired it.

“Guess you’ve seen a lot of kids come through here,” he suggested, taking a sip of water and then setting down the glass.

Sister Maggie nodded. “Never had one walking at ten months, though. But usually we get them a bit older.”

“Not a lot of experience with babies?”

If he’d been focusing on the chair or putting away his tools or looking for the sandpaper, Frank would have missed her reaction. Her breath caught and she looked down a moment before pulling on a brittle smile. “Not really, no.”

Frank wasn’t going to push it, whatever it was. She didn’t really look like she was in a sharing mood, so he changed the subject. “Hey,” he said, tucking the drill in its case. “Got any coffee on? Doesn’t have to be Irish.”

“Wouldn’t hurt if it was, though.”

Frank guessed that was a yes on the coffee, then. He gathered up his tools and followed Sister Maggie into the kitchen. He’d sand that chair next time and, apparently, deal with the table.

“You were a Catholic school kid, weren’t you?” Sister Maggie asked as she got out the cups.

“Yeah. How’d you know?”

“Just the look you got while Sister Marguerite was watching you. It’s a pretty common reaction, but more likely from someone who has, ah…”

“Been in the trenches?” Frank supplied, his tone a bit dry. He didn’t think Catholic school had been entirely different from his time in the Marines.

“Where did you go?”

“Sacred Heart.”

“Oh, they were old school.”

Frank shook his head, with a rueful little grin. “You’re not kidding.” The priests and the nuns had tried to keep him on what they’d thought was the right path, and his parents had tried. In the end, it had taken the Marines to make Frank into the person he was now, whatever that meant.

Sister Maggie set his coffee before him and sat across from him. “Well, it doesn’t appear to have done you lasting harm.”

Frank murmured his thanks and pulled the cup close. Yep, she’d doctored it; he could tell from the smell of it. He took a sip and nodded his approval. “After Sacred Heart, the Marines were a cakewalk.”

“Oh, you were in the Marines? I thought you had the look about you.” She sat up a bit, exaggeratedly straight.

“You can’t tell just by looking,” Frank quipped. At Sister Maggie’s arched eyebrows, he added, “I mean, the clothing sometimes gives us away, but in general…”

“But I was right.”

“That you were, Sister.” He took another healthy gulp of the coffee. “Thanks for this. I need to get going, though. Got another job tonight. Same time next week?”

“Pete, I don’t want you to think you have to keep coming back here.”

“Well, the way I see it, the stuff needs to get done and I can do it. Maybe it’ll help make up for all those Hail Marys I didn’t say as a kid. Besides,” he added, “You’ve got the best Irish coffee in Hell’s Kitchen, and that’s saying something.”

Looking pleased, Sister Maggie shooed him out of the kitchen. “Maple syrup,” she called after him.

“Maple syrup,” he agreed. “See you next Wednesday.”

Frank took his tools back to his place and started to prep for his night job. His guns, of course, were already in order, but he still checked them over to make sure everything was as it should be.

It felt a little weird, going from orphanage handyman to putting down some drug dealers, but he was helping the Kitchen both ways.

Nobody at the orphanage needed to know what he did with his nights. To them, he was just Pete the handyman, and that was how it was going to stay.

He waited until dark, close to the time that he’d heard the dirtbags were going to be in a warehouse that was too close to the orphanage for his liking. They might try to sell to some of the older kids or, worse, bring them into the organization. They were good kids, but without parents looking after them… well, it was easy to slip through the cracks. And Frank had heard that the drug dealers were already nosing around the middle school. _Middle school_ , fuck.

Frank took up position on top of a nearby roof with a clear line of sight into the warehouse through a block of windows. Some were even already broken. That was efficiency, right there.

He had gotten there early, but it wasn’t long before they started to arrive. Even if Frank hadn’t known what was going on, he’d have suspected they were up to something shady. They’d have to go. For the kids.

There weren’t that many of them. He’d be able to put them down, no problem. He took a deep breath and focused.

*One batch, two batch… *

He heard the scraping sound behind him just as _something_ hit his shoulder and knocked his arm. He got off a shot, but it went wild and the drug dealers scattered.

Frank turned to see just who the fuck was interfering in his op.

“Look, Castle.”

Red. Of course. Though he was in black, not red, and had ropes wrapped around his arms, some Muay Thai shit. He had a baton in one hand, and… yeah, there was the other one on the ground. That was what had hit him and ruined his shot.

Frank set aside his rifle, scooped up the baton and advanced on Red. Black. Whatever he was calling himself, he stood his ground as Frank asked, “What the fuck?”

“You can’t kill them.”

Cold fury twisted Frank’s insides. “Like hell, I can’t. Do you know what those assholes are doing?”

Red lifted his hands in a gesture that he probably thought was placating, but only served to piss Frank off even more. “I do. But -”

“Even you have to agree that they need to be stopped.”

Red nodded. “Yes, but -”

“But _nothing_. I’m going after them. Finish the job.” How the fuck he was going to find them, Frank didn’t know; that evening’s setup had taken some planning. But he’d get it done.

“I can’t let you do that.”

Frank didn’t bother to reply as he turned to go collect his gear, tossing the baton at Red’s feet.

This time, he was listening, so he heard Red’s footsteps and turned to meet him, fists already upraised. It wasn’t that he wanted to kick Red’s ass, but it would sure feel good.

Red tossed aside his additional baton and Frank scoffed. Still the altar boy, wanting to fight fair; as if there was anything fair about it. Frank didn’t take up his guns, though, instead landing an uppercut to Red’s ribs. Breath whooshed out of Red’s lungs and he grimaced but managed a solid punch to Frank’s eye.

“Ooh, that’ll leave a mark,” Frank taunted. “Going for the face. That’s okay, though. I’m not as pretty as you. Won’t make a difference.”

Red bared his teeth in something that was almost a smile. “You were going to ruin everything, Castle.” He wasn’t panting, but his breath was coming a little faster. Good.

Frank lunged in for another uppercut, but Red turned it into a grapple, taking Frank down to the ground. Frank landed a solid elbow strike, twisting out of Red’s grip and managing to get to his feet.

“By taking out those pieces of filth? In what universe is that a bad thing?”

Red rolled to his feet and then did some fancy kicking shit, backing Frank up a few steps and catching him on the side. “Mahoney is bringing them in tomorrow. They’ll cop a plea and give intel on their higher ups.”

Legal shit. Of course. “I could have put a big hole in their operations _tonight_. I would have been done by now.” He saw Red take in a breath as if to argue, so said, “And don’t give me any of that redemption bullshit. Those guys, they’re not going to better themselves. Only good thing they can do is die.” He went for Red’s ribs again, the other side; this time he dodged away, then came back with a few jabs at Frank’s midsection.

“You’ve got to look at the bigger picture, Frank.”

“Like hell I do. They’re selling drugs to kids, Red. You want that? In your neighborhood?”

Red exhaled sharply as he tried to kick Frank’s legs out from under him, but Frank managed to evade him. “No. I don’t. But you’re clearly not going to see things my way, and I can’t let you mess this up.”

There was that _let_ again, as if Red could let Frank do anything. Frank almost laughed, and moved to hit Red again: something solid that would shut him up. Before he’d taken two steps, he was flat on his back, his head ringing. He didn’t know what ninja shit Red had done, but the last thing he saw, not quite in focus, was Red’s face, covered by the stupid mask.

Son of a bitch.

* * *

Two days after the rooftop encounter with Frank Castle, Matt was pleased to learn that the drug dealers had been picked up.

“Sang like canaries,” Foggy crowed as he deposited a cup of what smelled like coffee on Matt’s desk.

Matt smiled. “Good.”

“Brett’s going to get his ducks in a row and then he’ll bring the bosses in.”

“I’m glad.” Matt thought he managed not to wince as he reached for the coffee, but Foggy must have seen something.

“Still hurting? Should you go see a doctor? Or Claire?”

Matt shook his head, finally picking up the coffee and taking a sip. “I’m fine.” Hearing Foggy’s sigh, he added, “Maybe a cracked rib. Nothing anybody could do about it.”

“You could, and I know this is a wild idea, go home and get some rest. I can handle the client meeting this afternoon.”

Matt shook his head. “Thanks, Fogs, but I’d rather be here. Resting at home? Not like I can watch TV. Might as well make myself useful.”

Foggy made a noise halfway between a laugh and a sigh. “Okay, yeah.” He turned to leave, his shoe scraping on the floor, then asked, a note of hesitancy in his voice, “What did you do when you were a kid? After the, uh, accident.”

Matt didn’t really like to think about those weeks right after he’d been blinded, but he would for Foggy. His father’s face, vanishing from his view, and the _pain_. “Well.” He cleared his throat. “I didn’t do much of anything right at first. They had me on some really amazing drugs and everything was kind of a blur. And then once I could think straight… I guess I just tried to keep it together, so my dad wouldn’t worry.”

Foggy moved closer, Matt’s desk creaking a little as he leaned against it. “Were you mad?”

“About what happened? Not really. Upset, yeah. I didn’t know why God would do that to me. But you know what they say. For every door that closes…”

“Another one opens? Or a window, or whatever?” Matt nodded. Foggy exhaled a short breath. “Yeah, that’s bullshit. Maybe for some people that happens, but not everybody. We know that, living here. Sometimes the door closing is just the first step in your house falling down.”

Matt reached out and found Foggy’s arm, gripping it for a moment. “Hey, you okay? Maybe you’re the one who should take the afternoon off.”

Foggy didn’t reply right away. “I’m fine,” he said, though not without a note of irony. “Just the Ruiz case, you know?”

Matt nodded. Tony Ruiz had been killed by drug dealers and Matt and Foggy were trying to get justice for him and for the family he’d left behind, but it wasn’t looking good. His family struggled with both their grief and with other, more day-to-day worries.

“Maybe Brett will be able to get something helpful out of those guys.”

“Maybe,” Foggy echoed, not sounding too optimistic.

Matt got to his feet and slung an arm around Foggy’s shoulders, ignoring the fire the movement sparked in his side. “Come on. It’s lunchtime, right?”

“Uh, it’s ten-thirty.”

“It’s lunchtime somewhere. Let’s get out of here. Go grab some pizza.”

“At ten-thirty?” But Foggy was sounding amused, at least, rather than defeated.

“We’ll get it with sausage. That’s breakfast food.”

Laughing, Foggy said, “Okay, fine. As long as it’s Capizzi. And you can explain to my doctor why my cholesterol’s gone to hell.” He turned to lead the way out of the office and then paused, as if his own words had echoed back to him. “When did I get so old?”

“You’re not old, Fogs. Come on. Capizzi awaits.”

They made their way out of the office, and while they did talk over the upcoming meeting over their pizza, for a little while it was like they were back in law school.

That evening, Matt stopped by St. Agnes. It wasn’t quite on his way home from work, but close enough that he made the detour every now and again. It was nice, he figured, if he occasionally saw Maggie when he wasn’t bleeding.

Sometimes he would ask somebody where she was, but on that day he chose to wander through the orphanage in search of her. The kids, used to him by now, called a greeting or shared a bit of news as he passed. The building still felt the same as it had when he’d lived there, still had the same smell of cleaning products, whatever they’d had for dinner, and that general “kid” smell that nobody but Matt really seemed to notice.

Eventually, he ended up in the kitchen. He usually did; Maggie tended to be either there or in the laundry room, when she wasn’t at the church. It sounded like she was putting away dishes and Matt moved to help, setting aside his cane and handing her a stack of plates.

“Wish you’d been this helpful when you were a kid.”

“Ha, you’re welcome.” Matt closed the cabinet door, then frowned and opened it again, easing it back and forth. “This doesn’t squeak anymore. Or, well, not as much.” Unless he made an effort to shut it out, he could always hear the little creaks the furniture made, hinges protesting their years of labor, chairs settling back with the weight of the people who sat in them. He closed the cabinet door, running a hand along the place where it met the cabinet.

“Oh, yes. There’s a young man from the neighborhood who’s been coming in and doing a little work here and there.”

Matt nodded his approval as he took up his cane and settled into a chair. It, too, didn’t squeak as much, though there was a rough edge to one side, now. He ran his fingers along it, frowning.

“He’ll get to that,” Maggie said, perhaps noting Matt’s expression. “It’s on the list.”

“Oh, you have a _list_? Poor guy. How’d you con him into doing this? Catholic guilt? Did you use your nun powers on him?”

“Nun powers?” Maggie echoed, sounding amused and perhaps a little too innocent. No doubt she’d heard the kids whisper about the fabled nun powers.

Still, Matt played along. “You know, the death stare, that sort of thing?”

“Death stare?” She was trying not to laugh, from the sounds of it, and not entirely succeeding.

“Please. I can tell when Sister Marguerite is giving me the death stare, and I’m _blind_.”

“Well, no nun powers were involved. He just offered.”

“He’s Catholic.” It wasn’t a question.

“Lapsed, but yes. Went to Sacred Heart.”

“Oh, they’re tough. I heard the nuns there didn’t carry rulers; no, they had meter sticks. I was always glad Dad could never afford to send me there.”

Maggie didn’t say anything, but Matt heard her soft intake of breath, the way her heartbeat stuttered into a faster pace for just a moment. Was it that he had mentioned his father, or was it the reference to money trouble? Sometimes this happened and he was never sure if he had said something wrong or if it was just that Maggie struggled with the past. That uncertainty, it was always there in their relationship. Maybe someday they would get past it, but as that would probably require open and honest communication, Matt had his doubts.

The thought of going to therapy with Maggie to work through their issues occurred to him, and the mental image of explaining it all to the hypothetical therapist - Maggie’s return to the church, his blinding, his father’s murder, not to mention the fact that he had heightened senses and fought crime - made him shake his head. He almost laughed.

“What?” Maggie asked, a prickle in her voice that Matt found familiar because he sounded just that way when he was feeling defensive.

That was the moment, he knew: the one where he should just say, _Look, Dad and I were okay._ But then doubt gripped him; would that just make her feel worse?

Maybe therapy wasn’t such a bad idea, but he knew it would never happen. So he just smiled and said, “Nothing. I was just thinking about something funny.”

Maggie made a noise that suggested that she wasn’t entirely satisfied with his answer, but she didn’t push him. Instead, she asked, “You need patching up? I saw that face you made when you sat down.”

“No. Thanks.” He felt her wave of skepticism, the second of the dreaded nun powers, and added, “No blood, I promise.” He raised a hand with two fingers - wasn’t that some Boy Scout promise thing? - and smiled at Maggie’s short laugh. “Can’t a guy just come and see his -” Her heart rate sped up again, and Matt stopped talking, though he wasn’t sure if he was more surprised by his word choice or by her response to it. “- mother,” he finished, his voice quiet, but it was too late. She’d already turned back to whatever task she’d been doing.

Matt sighed. He got to his feet. “Maggie, look -”

“You don’t have to say it, Matthew. I know I was never a mother to you.” Her tone was stiff and it sounded like she still faced away from him.

“That isn’t what I was going to say.” He felt guilty that he’d upset her, though he still wasn’t entirely sure what he’d done wrong. But guilt was part and parcel of their relationship, really.

“You don’t have to say it.”

Wow. Claire had called him a martyr and apparently he came by it honestly. “Well, last I checked, I wasn’t dead yet,” he said, his voice gentle. “We’ve got time to figure this out.”

This time she did turn. “Thank you.”

Matt stepped forward and smiled at her. “I’ve got to go, but I’ll see you Sunday, okay?”

“Sunday,” she agreed.

Couldn’t have too much communication in one day, after all.

* * *

By the next Wednesday, Frank’s black eye hadn’t faded. He thought some of the kids might comment, but was unprepared for the sheer volume of their reaction. It started even before he’d entered the orphanage, as he encountered a cluster of kids sitting on the front step.

“Wow, Pete! What happened to you?”

“Duh, he got in a fight.”

“What happened to the other guy? Did you kick his - butt?” That last was said with a look from the kid who spoke toward the direction of the front door, beyond which nuns no doubt lurked.

“Of course he did! Right, Pete?”

They trailed along behind him like a bunch of puppies, and Frank was not about to admit that the _other guy_ had left him out cold on a roof.

But he also didn’t want to say, _Yeah, I kicked his ass,_ because besides being inaccurate, it wasn’t something he wanted to say to a bunch of kids. So he didn’t say anything, but instead just went up the steps, leaving the kids to speculate about just how much butt was kicked.

“Okay, that’s enough,” said Sister Maggie, holding the door open for Frank as she cast a gimlet eye upon the kids outside. “Don’t you have homework to do?”

Most of the kids sighed and agreed and filed into the orphanage, though one of the smaller ones remained sitting outside.

“I don’t have homework,” he protested, when Sister Maggie waved him inside.

“Come in anyway, Mikey.”

“Awww,” the kid grumbled, but he followed the rest of the kids.

“The death stare,” Frank stage-whispered, as the last of the kids disappeared upstairs. “Always effective.”

“There is no death stare,” Sister Maggie replied, though she looked amused as she said it.

Frank scoffed, shaking his head. “Just don’t want to admit it.”

Sister Maggie chuckled, though her expression grew serious as she asked, “Are you all right? Any injuries besides the obvious?”

“Nah, I’m fine.” Frank wondered at the disbelieving noise Sister Maggie made at that. “Really.”

“Well, if you ever run into some trouble, I’ve had some experience looking after injuries.”

“Do I look like the kind of guy to get into trouble?” Frank hid a grin at the sheer volume of sarcasm that Sister Maggie managed to put into one arched eyebrow. “Okay, don’t answer that. I’ll keep it in mind. Just don’t give me any Hail Marys, okay?”

“I’m not a priest, but if you wanted to go to confession, I’m sure I could find you some help.”

Ha. There weren’t enough Hail Marys in the world for anything Frank would confess. “I’m good, thanks. What’s on the list for today? That table Mikey glued himself to, and I want to finish sanding that chair. Anything else?”

“Of course,” Sister Maggie replied, her smile a little wry. “The list is eternal.” She hesitated, then said, “I know I’ve said it before, but don’t feel like you have to keep coming back. We appreciate the help, but if you have other things you need to be doing, we can find somebody else.”

“Judging from the size of the list, ma’am, I’m not sure that’s true.” He did not point out that lying was a sin.

“We could,” Sister Maggie repeated. “It just might take some work.”

“Don’t worry about it, then. I’m glad to help. It’s good for the kids.”

“Might also be good for the kids to see you at mass.”

Frank heaved a sigh. She’d mentioned it before, delicately, always dropping the subject when Frank sidestepped it. “I appreciate the thought, Sister, but mass isn’t for me. Not anymore.”

Sister Maggie inclined her head. “Well, if you ever change your mind…”

“I know where to find the church.” Though Frank wondered if she would really want him there, if she knew everything he’d done. He was certain that he’d acted for the best, putting down people whose deaths made the world better, but somehow he doubted that the church would agree. “So what’s top of the list this week.”

“One of the toilets upstairs is clogged.”

Frank paused and eyed the nun. “I notice you saved that for _after_ I said I wasn’t going to mass.”

“It’s not penance,” Sister Maggie replied, sounding amused. “And if it makes you feel any better, I’m told that it’s clogged because of an incident involving Mikey and some socks.”

“Well, there are definitely worse things to clog a toilet. I’ll get to it.” He started for the stairs, though he turned when the nun spoke his name. “Yeah?”

“I meant what I said.”

“You said a lot of things.”

Sister Maggie smiled. “And I meant them all. But I appreciate the help you’re giving us. If there’s anything we - I - could do in return…”

Frank gestured upward, toward the bathroom. “Pray for me?”

She laughed. “Done.”

The next evening, Frank prepped for his night job, but he still thought about the orphanage and the kids. They had pretty much a shoestring budget, but the nuns did their best for the kids.

He’d fixed the toilet. Besides the fact that it had been stopped up with no less than five socks, there had also been an issue with the gasket. Frank had run out and gotten a new one and fixed it, but that had taken up the rest of the evening. Not even time to sit and chat over coffee, though Sister Maggie had sent him off with a travel cup full of the good stuff.

He double-checked his gear, telling himself to focus. What he was doing at night would help the kids, too. It would make their neighborhood safer.

Frank had heard that a couple of the drug dealers he’d been hunting had been picked up by the cops, for all the good that did, but he’d gotten a lead on some of the others. He’d take them out; fewer drug dealers was always a good thing. He pulled on his hoodie over his vest and zipped it up, for warmth as well as relative anonymity. The drug dealers already knew that someone was after them because of that shot Red had ruined; no need for them to know the details of who hunted them until the time was right.

He headed toward the abandoned building where he’d heard the drug dealers had holed up, sticking to street level this time. There wasn’t decent rooftop access to the building; besides, Frank wanted to see them when he put them down, to know he’d gotten the job done. None of this legal bullshit. Even if these drug dealers ended up in jail, they’d just get out again and go back to the same old shit. And Red had said the lower-level ones were going to talk, so they would just cut a deal and get out of jail sooner.

Not that cutting off the head of the snake was a bad thing. Frank could talk to the drug dealers that were left, find out from them who their bosses were, and kill _them_.

Of course, he’d also kill the ones who had sold out their bosses.

Good plan. It had a certain simplicity that Frank appreciated.

Frank finally reached the building. He’d done recon the night before, but the drug dealers could have changed things up. He listened for a moment outside the building, then shrugged and carefully opened the door. Just one person sat in the small front room, and he was paying more attention to his phone than the door. He even had earbuds or whatever in his ears. Fucking amateur.

Coming up behind the guy, Frank remembered his plan of getting more information and hit him at the base of the skull. He slumped in his chair; Frank got some zip ties out of a pocket - always good to be prepared - and secured the guy to the chair.

Frank heard the sounds of a scuffle from the next room and moved silently in that direction. It took Frank a moment to figure out what was happening; the lights were out. From the crunch of glass under his foot, something had happened to the bulbs. Frank heard a grunt and then somebody, presumably a drug dealer, landed a few feet from him. When the guy tried to get up, Frank gave him a boot to the face. He stayed down after that.

Frank wasn’t sure how many of the drug dealers were left, but they all seemed clustered around an increasingly familiar figure.

Aw, hell. Red, interfering again. He seemed to be holding his own, doing that ninja kick, flip, bounce off the wall shit; Frank took a moment just to watch. Damn, Red looked good, though Frank frowned at the thought. When one of the thugs seemed to be gaining the upper hand, Frank took aim and fired.

Bam. One less drug dealer in Hell’s Kitchen.

Red, maybe startled by the gunfire, twisted in Frank’s direction; the thug behind him pulled out a gun and fired at Red before Frank could do more than register the gun.

A moment later, that drug dealer fell down, Frank’s bullet in his brain.

Red, somehow still on his feet, managed to knock down another drug dealer, though the effort sent him staggering. Frank shot the final enemy, who fell to the ground at the same time as Red.

Fuck.

Frank secured his weapon and made his way to Red’s side, hunkering down next to him. Well, he was still breathing. Good. But if that pool of blood was any indication, Frank had better do something if he wanted Red to _keep_ breathing.

He… didn’t want Red to die. Huh. Sure, he was a sanctimonious jerk, but he did good for the Kitchen.

“Red,” he called, leaning closer. “Red, stay with me.”

Red turned in Frank’s direction, his expression hazy but exasperated. “You _shot_ them.”

“Yeah. They shot _you_.” That wasn’t why Frank had shot them, of course. He’d been planning to do that all along. “Where’d they get you?”

Red tugged at his shirt and, yeah, that was definitely where the blood was coming from. Frank grabbed his phone and called Curtis, but he didn’t pick up.

Fuck.

“Here." He pulled off his hoodie and pressed it against the wound, then put Red’s hand on it. “Put pressure on it. Okay? I can get you to a hospital.”

“No.” Red gulped a breath, pushing weakly on the hoodie, then added, “Gunshot. They’d report it. Can’t.”

Frank got it. The reporting and all could expose Red’s identity, or at least raise questions. Still, he asked as he added his hand to Red’s to increase the pressure, “You’d rather die?”

Red didn’t say anything, and Frank got that, too. He’d had those times when death had seemed like the best alternative.

Finally, Red said, clearly struggling with his words, “Someone else.” He inhaled as if to say more, but then his head lolled back. Frank pulled back the mask, and the lack of protest told him the seriousness of the issue before he saw that Red’s eyes were closed. He tugged the mask back into place. Seemed wrong not to.

Fuck. Red couldn’t die. Frank had distracted him; he wouldn’t have been shot if not for Frank. Not that Frank objected to Red being hurt; the guy kept putting himself in harm’s way, so it seemed like a given. But if an injury was because of him, Frank wanted it to be intentional, that was all. He tucked the hoodie under Red’s beat-up shirt, then jury-rigged something with zip ties to hold it tight.

A memory popped into his head, a woman’s voice saying she had experience with injuries. Carefully hefting Red, Frank decided to take her at her word. The orphanage was close; Frank could get Red there, and in time. He wouldn’t consider any other possibility.

Frank was breathing hard by the time he reached the orphanage’s back door. Grateful that it was late enough that the kids would likely be in bed, he balanced Red against his shoulder and tried the door.

Locked. Of course; it was late. Frank knocked on the door, then realized that he’d gotten blood on the doorknob. No way to clean it, though; not while he was holding Red.

The door opened a crack and then a bit more, Sister Maggie wide-eyed on its other side. “What happened?” she asked, opening the door the rest of the way.

He remained on the doorstep. “Were you serious when you said you can help people when they’re hurt? He’s not some kid with a busted knee.”

Sister Maggie looked at Red, her expression unreadable. “He’s not,” she agreed. “Wait.”

She set off for the stairs, moving quickly and quietly, then came back with a bag of what Frank guessed were supplies. Huh. She was prepared. “This way,” she said, brushing past Frank and going toward the church.

“Sister, he doesn’t need prayers right now,” Frank protested. “He needs help.”

Sister Maggie hit him with a solid death stare, strong enough that he flinched. “He needs both, and he’ll get them. Bring him.” She waited for Frank to get moving and led him into the bowels of the church next door. “Here,” she said, indicating a bed. Where were they, a fucking crypt? Why was there a bed there? But Frank bent down, carefully transferring Red to the bed.

“He got shot,” Frank said. Sister Maggie sighed, though her eyebrows went up when she saw Frank’s zip tie contraption. “To put pressure on it,” Frank explained, and her expression cleared. She reached for Red’s mask, but Frank blocked the motion with his arm. “He wouldn’t want people to know.”

Sister Maggie moved Frank’s arm; he found that he couldn’t stop her. “I already know.”

What the fuck kind of secret identity was it if so many people knew about it? Still, Frank let Sister Maggie remove Red’s mask, then watched as her hand hovered over his head for a moment. A blessing?

“Sister,” he prompted. “He’s probably still bleeding.”

Sister Maggie nodded. She rummaged in her bag for scissors and removed the zip ties, then got to work. Frank watched for a moment, then, seeing as how Red was in good hands, he moved toward the door.

“Wait,” Sister Maggie said, so he waited. “I need your help. Go back to Saint Agnes and get some hot water, and there are some clean cloths in the drawer next to the kitchen sink.” Frank knew that; he’d fixed that drawer. Frank caught sight of a sink in the crypt, but he wasn’t sure he’d trust it, and there weren’t clean cloths or a bucket for the water or anything, and maybe the water only came out cold.

He turned to go, then paused at another “Wait,” from Sister Maggie. “There should still be a sweatshirt in those drawers. Put it on, cover the vest.”

Frank went cold as he looked down and saw that his vest was plainly visible, the skull streaked with blood. Of course. He’d taken off his hoodie to try and stop Red’s bleeding.

She _knew_. She had to know. Everybody knew about the vest. Hell, people made fucking stickers with the skull on them. The first time he’d seen one, stuck to some street sign, Frank had about had a stroke.

Sister Maggie looked over and perhaps saw something of his worry in his face. “Hot water,” she prompted, her voice surprisingly gentle.

Frank grabbed the sweatshirt from the drawer, pulled it on, and hurried from the church.

He was _not_ running. Not at all. But he got the water and the cloths and took a minute to clean the blood off the doorknob before he hurried back to the crypt or whatever it was.

Frank hesitated when he saw Sister Maggie, her head bowed over Red. She’d removed his shirt, though she still pressed a cloth to his wound with her folded hands. He didn’t want to disturb her, but the situation did seem pretty urgent.

“Sister?”

Her head jerked upright, but then she gestured him over. “Looks like small caliber and there’s an exit wound, so it’s better than it could be,” she said as Frank brought over the cloths and water and set them at her elbow. He… did not ask how she knew that.

He glanced down at Red as he turned to go, but then paused. Damn. Red had managed to get a lot of scars. See, that was why he needed some decent body armor. Going around in a shirt and combat boots, that was just dumb.

Frank also noticed that Red was, well, pretty fit. He figured those ninja kicks kept a guy in good shape. Huh.

No. These were not the kinds of thoughts he wanted to have about Red. He tore his gaze away, turning his focus where it should be.

Holier-than-thou asshole.

Altar Boy.

Doing a half-assed job of keeping the city safe.

There. That was better.

He looked down at Red one more time, just to prove that he could do it without noticing those abs and… as he glanced away again, he noticed the nun watching him, her eyebrows lifted.

Perhaps guessing that he was ready to flee, she said, “I might need you again.” She pulled a bottle from her bag and dumped a healthy portion of it into the water, apparently assuming that Frank would stay.

And, well, he would. All this was his fault, after all. If the sister needed his help, he was staying.

Sister Maggie turned her attention to Red, quickly cleaning the blood from first his torso and then his arms. She moved carefully and Frank thought it was almost like a ritual, though maybe that was the setting. He’d seen guys get patched up in some pretty weird places, but this just about took the cake.

Frank looked away as she got into the more involved portion of the program. It’s not that he was squeamish - he’d seen his fair share of people getting stitches and such - but that didn’t mean he liked watching somebody get needles pulled through their skin.

The sister, she seemed pretty good at it, though, like she’d had practice. How often did the orphanage kids need stitches? He’d figured… hell, he didn’t know what he’d figured. He’d thought he would drop Red off on her doorstep and hope there wouldn’t be a body. But it seemed like he’d brought Red somewhere helpful.

“Pete,” Sister Maggie said, her impatient tone suggesting that it wasn’t for the first time. He hurried over, noting her assessing look. “Well, no. It’s not Pete, is it?”

“No, Sister.”

She studied him for a moment longer, then shook her head, a hint of wry amusement crossing her face. “You look like M- one of the children, thinking they’re in trouble. But we don’t have time for that. Help me turn him over.”

Frank looked down to see that the sister had taped a gauze pad to what Frank guessed was the entry wound, from what he remembered of how Red had been positioned relative to the shooter. “He going to be okay?”

Sister Maggie nodded. “I’m fairly certain it missed anything major; he’s lucky. He should be fine soon enough, assuming he doesn’t do anything stupid.” Frank cleared his throat, and Sister Maggie nodded ruefully. “Well, yes. But I do need that help.”

“Of course. Sorry, Sister.”

Sister Maggie sighed. “Look. We’re not at Sacred Heart or in front of the children. You can call me Maggie.” He was pretty sure he couldn’t. “But for now you need to focus. I need your help.”

Frank nodded and moved to help Sister Maggie turn Red onto his front. He did most of the work, with the nun basically directing him. He didn’t think about Red’s skin under his hands, slick with sweat, or of the way his muscles shifted as Frank moved him.

Sister Maggie eyed him as she pulled a blanket up to Red’s waist. “You need a minute?”

“What? No.” What did she even mean? “You need any more help?”

Sister Maggie made a noise that sounded amused as she cleaned Red’s back. “I’m going to need to turn him back over once I’ve done this.”

Frank nodded and settled back against a wall, again not really watching as Sister Maggie stitched Red up. She worked in silence for long enough that Frank got antsy.

She was having him stick around because she needed help with Red. Once he was settled, she’d probably kick Frank to the curb. Knowing who he was, she wasn’t going to want him around the kids.

Frank didn’t care. Of course he didn’t. He’d just been doing it to help out. He’d have more free time.

Hell, it was just one day a week doing odd jobs. So why was he getting so bent out of shape about it?

“If you’re done feeling sorry for yourself, I could use a hand.”

Frank looked over, irritated. “I’m not feeling sorry for myself.” He moved over and peered down at Red; he had a second gauze patch to match the first.

“Sure, you’re not.”

Frank heaved an exasperated sigh and then carefully shifted Red from back to front. He worked quickly, not letting either his eyes or his hands linger.

He decided to ignore the nun’s words, saying only, “If you want to get Red home, his buddy Nelson would probably help. If the number’s not in Red’s phone, or you can’t get to it, his people run the butcher shop.”

“Red?” Sister Maggie echoed, sounding amused. She pulled the blanket up to Red’s chest and Frank glanced over at the movement. Some of the scars were still visible, but Frank turned away.

“Just a stupid nickname. You need me anymore?”

Sister Maggie studied him for a moment, then shook her head. “Not just now.”

Frank nodded, a knot forming in the pit of his stomach. “All right, then.” He turned to leave and it seemed like Sister Maggie was saying something, but Frank kept walking. He walked out of the church and past the orphanage, not looking back. He was halfway to his place when he remembered the drug dealer he’d left zip-tied to the chair.

Shit. Should he go deal with the guy? Frank almost said _Fuck it_ and went home, but he didn’t like leaving a job unfinished. Heaving a sigh, he changed direction and went back to the building. From the noise he heard as he approached the door, the guy he’d zip-tied had woken up.

“Hey,” the guy said as Frank entered the room. “Hey, help!”

Frank grabbed the small room’s other chair and put it before the other guy, sitting. “Funny you should mention help.” He took out his gun. “I need some information. Who do you work for?”

“They’ll kill me,” the guy protested.

Frank lifted his gun and just smiled. From the way the guy’s eyes widened, it was not a comforting smile.

It didn’t take much more convincing - just a punch or two to the face - and the guy spilled the beans. He named names and gave addresses, and then Frank shot him in the head. Finished the job.

Red would have objected, but Red wasn’t there.

Remembering the guy he’d kicked in the face, Frank moved into the next room. He used his phone’s light to check the bodies. There seemed to be the right number and, yeah, there was the guy he’d kicked. Must have been a good one. He played the light across the room, his attention caught by Red’s blood staining the floor.

Frank didn’t want to think about Red. He was in good hands and the nun had said he’d be okay, so he probably would. Frank would find out the next time he ran into Red, or not. He wasn’t going back to the church to ask after him. No need to give the nun the chance to tell him to get out.

Shame about the work, though. There was an unbalanced ceiling fan he’d wanted to fix. And it would have been nice to say goodbye to the kids.

Frank shook his head as he left the building. He wanted to kick himself for letting the nun find out who he was, but no sense thinking about that. Nothing he could do.

And if Frank stopped by Pop’s liquor store on the way home, only Joey was there to notice. He rarely turned to alcohol, but sometimes it was necessary.


	2. Chapter 2

Matt opened his eyes and tried to catalog his surroundings. The smell - laundry soap over distant incense - nagged at his brain until he realized where he was; for a moment he was back in those awful days after Midland Circle, his senses askew, his faith shattered, his life…

No. No, that had been long ago.

He inhaled a deep breath, then winced at the pain. There it was; that felt more familiar. But that breath had brought him the sensation of water nearby and he fumbled at the bedside table until he found the glass and drank from it, careful not to gulp too much.

That was better, though. He sat fully upright, the blanket slipping to his waist as he did so, and then felt his side where the pain was. Gauze, with the sensation of stitches beneath, and another on his back. A matched set. It would probably scar, but he didn’t take scars too seriously anymore; not unless the injury that caused them kept him out of the action.

Matt tried to remember how he’d gotten there and came up blank. He’d gone after those drug dealers, more of the ones from the Ruiz case, and there had been… well, it seemed like there had been gunfire, but Matt couldn’t get the details from his brain.

He must have dragged himself to St. Agnes and gotten Maggie to help him; he recognized her work, and how else would he have ended up under the church? Hopefully, he hadn’t traumatized too many of the nuns, though some of them knew who he was.

There should still be clothes there, left from his previous stay. Matt managed to get to his feet and only staggered a little on his way to the dresser. As he pulled it open, already sweating a little from the effort and annoyed by his weakness, he heard a familiar step.

“Just like old times.”

He turned. Maggie had brought food. Oatmeal, his nose said, likely the same as the kids were getting at the orphanage. He wasn’t hungry but figured that eating it was easier than explaining to Maggie why he wouldn’t. He definitely smelled coffee, too; that was far more welcome.

He rummaged in the drawer and found sweatpants and a t-shirt; he took them, though he would have preferred a warmer shirt. His had been shredded, no doubt.

“Not _just_ like old times,” Matt demurred, wincing a little as he pulled on the t-shirt. He moved to sit on the edge of the bed and thought about putting on the sweatpants, but he still had on the previous night’s cargo pants to preserve whatever remained of his modesty. They didn’t seem too filthy and he’d be going home soon enough.

“Well, no,” Maggie agreed, her voice gone soft. She set down his oatmeal on the bedside, adding, “I assume you want to start with the coffee?”

“Please.” He held out his hand and took the coffee, adding, “Thank you. Sorry. I’m not sure what happened. Guessing I didn’t get here in a taxi last night, huh?” He sipped at the coffee, then took a long gulp when he found it was just the right temperature. Better already.

There was a silence from Maggie that felt important, but then she just said, “No.”

“Well. Good, I guess.” Matt took another drink of coffee, then set it aside in favor of the oatmeal. He still wasn’t hungry, but he found that the oatmeal disappeared in short order.

Maggie just stood and watched, then made a noise that sounded pleased and maybe a little amused. “Well, at least you have your appetite. I can go get some more, if you like.”

“No, thanks. I need to get home and change, then get to work.”

“Matthew.” Now her voice had that sharp tone that he had learned meant _worried_. “You got shot last night.”

“I remember.” Well, mostly. “Where are my boots?” She didn’t answer, and Matt turned his head in her direction. “Do you really want it in your conscience that you let me go out there in socks? You know what those sidewalks are like.”

Maggie sighed and moved closer, and then the boots landed next to the bed with a soft thud.

“Thanks. What time is it?”

“Not quite ten.”

“So I’m not too late. Hope Foggy isn’t too worried.” He bent down to put on the boots and bit back a sound of pain as the motion did things he did not like to his injuries. Socks almost felt more appealing, but he pulled on the boots nonetheless.

“You’re an idiot.”

“Now, see, _that’s_ just like old times.” Matt grinned at the quiet laugh from Maggie as he got to his feet, then added, “Thank you. For breakfast and for your care.” He turned to go, but paused, asking, “How did I get here? I don’t remember…”

“Oh, your… friend brought you.”.

“My… who?” Maybe Jessica or Luke or Danny had found him, though Hell’s Kitchen wasn’t exactly any of their territories.

“Frank Castle.”

For a moment, Matt thought he hadn’t heard her correctly. Then he could feel his blood pounding in his temples, throbbing in the wounds on his abdomen and back. “Frank Castle? Was here?”

“Well, yes. It would be hard for him to bring you here, otherwise.”

“Frank Castle. Was here. With you.” Matt tried to slow down his breathing. Frank Castle. The man was a loose cannon, a psychopath, and he’d been there. _With Maggie_.

“Did you hit your head?” Maggie asked, her words reassuringly tart. “Has your hearing gone again? Yes, Frank Castle.”

“Frank Castle brought me _here_?”

“Matthew, sit down.” He did, really unable to process what had happened. “I heard a knock at the door; I’d been up late. I opened the door and there was Mr. Castle. He was carrying you. Did a good job of not letting you bleed to death on the way over, too.”

“Mr. Castle,” Matt scoffed. “Maggie, how - how did he know to come here? How do… do you know him? Frank Castle?”

“Repeating his name obviously isn’t helping you understand the situation any better, so please stop.” The bed sank a little as Maggie sat next to him. “He’s been helping out around the orphanage, fixing things.”

Matt had just about calmed down, but, no, that was all out the window. “He _what_?”

“This is going to go more slowly if I have to repeat things, too. Matthew, really, he was perfectly nice, very helpful. You of all people shouldn’t judge him.”

“I of all people? What’s that supposed to mean? Frank Castle is a killer. Maggie, do you know how many people he’s killed? I know I’ve lost track, and I was his lawyer. And you’re letting him around the kids?”

“He’s good with them. Very patient. And I don’t know how many people he’s killed, but I know one he saved. You would be dead right now if he hadn’t gotten you to me.”

 _That_ information hit Matt right in the gut. Beholden to Frank Castle for his life?

“Oh.”

“Yes, oh. So I’d get off my high horse if I were you.”

“Get off my - Maggie, he slaughtered people. Hung them from hooks. Gunned down rooms full of people.”

“And I pray for him. I hope that he’ll come back to the church and -”

“And stop killing people? Unlikely.”

“You never know, Matthew.”

Matt took a deep breath. Frank Castle. _There_. It still hadn’t quite sunk in. But then he made a connection, asking, “Castle was the one who fixed that squeaky cabinet?”

“Yes.”

“So he’s been coming around for weeks, at least. Did you know who he was all that time?”

Maggie hesitated and her heartbeat went up a bit. “No.”

“When did you find out?”

She sighed. “Last night. He had the vest on when he brought you here. He’d taken off his sweatshirt to help stop your bleeding.”

So Frank had not only saved Matt, but he’d also revealed his identity to Maggie in the process.

Well, shit.

“Are you going to let him come back to the orphanage?”

Maggie again took a moment to respond. “He’s only ever done good for us. Yes.”

Matt sighed. He thought it was a mistake; Castle clearly had issues. As far as Matt knew, Castle only ever killed criminals, though, so the kids and nuns would be safe. Well, unless Castle took offense to Sister Marguerite’s fondness for scratch-offs, something like that. That was the problem: he just didn’t know what might make Castle snap.

“That’s your choice, I guess,” Matt replied. “Might want to run that by Father Joe, though.”

Maggie scoffed, and Matt could practically hear her saying that Father Joe wasn’t the boss of her. He kind of was, though.

“You leave that to me,” Maggie said. She sighed briefly, adding, “You shouldn’t go to work today, Matthew. Call Foggy. He’ll understand.”

Matt shook his head as he got to his feet. “He would, but he shouldn’t have to. I’ll see you on Sunday, okay?” He turned at the door. “Thanks for not letting me die.”

“Wasn’t just me,” Maggie called after him.

Matt didn’t reply as he left. But if Maggie wasn’t going to keep Frank Castle away from the orphanage, it would be up to Matt to deal with that.

Of course, Matt didn’t stay home and rest. He called Foggy on his way back to his apartment to let him know he’d be late, then went home, cleaned up a bit, and changed clothes. His one concession to his injury was that he got a cab to the office. He didn’t like spending the money, but making the walk seemed like too much of a challenge.

“About time, buddy,” Foggy said cheerfully as Matt made his way into the office.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Matt said, summoning a smile.

“What, did you oversleep? Everything okay?”

“Yeah, fine.” Still, Matt didn’t take his time about going to his desk and taking a seat. Getting off his feet felt amazing. “How’d the client meeting go this morning?”

“Nothing unexpected. Mrs. Ruiz just left, though. She told me the police called her, said there were a bunch of dead drug dealers found early this morning.”

“Where?”

Foggy told him, and Matt managed to keep his expression neutral. That was definitely where he’d been the previous night, and Castle had handled the situation in his usual way. Further proof that he shouldn’t be around the orphanage, around Maggie.

Matt would deal with that later, though. For the time being, he had to get through the workday.

“Mrs. Ruiz was pretty pleased,” Foggy added, his tone a little rueful. “She said she was glad to have them off the street. Of course, that wasn’t what she said to the cops, thank goodness, and she and the kids were at her parents’ place when it happened. Not like they suspected her anyway.”

“No, of course not,” Matt agreed automatically, his mind still on the previous night. He’d gone to intimidate the drug dealers, as Mahoney’s op was taking longer than expected. He’d wanted to scare them, maybe put them in the hospital. Apparently Castle’d had a similar idea.

Foggy had stopped talking, and Matt realized from the feel of the silence that he should probably be saying something. “Sorry, what?”

Foggy sighed, just the smallest of exhalations. “Don’t worry about it. You feeling okay, though? You’re looking kind of pale.”

“Yeah, I’m fine. I just want to review those files before our next meeting, okay?”

Foggy stepped closer, and Matt felt his friend’s hand rest on his shoulder for a moment. “Sure thing.”

Matt unbuttoned his jacket, then got out the file as Foggy moved to his own desk, even rested his fingers on it, but he didn’t read it.

There was one way to deal with the Castle situation: he could tell Brett that Castle had killed the drug dealers. Even if they couldn’t find him to bring him in, he’d be on the run, and definitely wouldn’t be showing up at the orphanage.

Matt considered it. It would be a neat solution, but a shitty thing to do to the guy who had, if Maggie was right, saved his life.

No. He couldn’t do it. He’d go talk to Castle after work. Maybe the guy would see that he really shouldn’t be hanging around a bunch of impressionable kids.

Matt turned his attention to the file and tried to focus, but his attention wavered. Why had Castle even started going to the orphanage, anyway? Had Maggie been paying him? The orphanage was short enough of funds as it was, and…

“You ready?”

Matt turned in Foggy’s direction, then closed the still-unread file. “Yeah, of course.” He got to his feet, then wobbled a little.

“Matt? Matty, you’re bleeding.” Matt let his hand rest against the patch of gauze, unable to focus on the panicked words coming from Foggy’s mouth.

“… fine.”

“You’re not fine. I’ll push back the meeting and get you home.”

“I can -”

“Yeah, because you’re _fine_.” Matt had not realized that Foggy could reach that level of sarcasm. “Have you seen a doctor?”

“Maggie.” Matt fumbled his jacket closed once more, as if hiding the evidence would distract Foggy. “It’s okay. Maybe popped a stitch. How much blood is there?” He could smell it, he realized, but he’d been smelling it since he woke up, hadn’t realized it had gotten worse.

“Not a lot, but there shouldn’t be _any_. Blood goes on the inside, Matty.” Foggy rested a hand on Matt’s back as they headed out of the office; after a few minutes Matt reached up to take his arm.

“I will keep that in mind.”

“Why did you even come in to work today? I could have handled things.”

“I’ve let you down too much,” Matt said as they walked. Foggy… did not disagree.

“Let’s just get you home, okay? What, did somebody stick a knife in you?”

“Something like that.”

Matt’s memories of the previous evening were still a little hazy. Maybe… maybe Castle had shot him. Maybe he’d brought Matt to Maggie out of guilt.

Matt would definitely bring that up with Castle when they talked. Just then, though, he allowed Foggy to guide him into his apartment, his friend’s presence reassuring. He didn’t go so far as to let Foggy tuck him in bed, but did deign to sprawl on the couch.

“I don’t like seeing you like this,” Foggy said, his voice worried.

“Me, neither,” Matt quipped. “Look, if you go, you can make the meeting.” Matt felt Foggy’s hesitancy and added, “It’s all right, really.”

“Okay, you must not be too bad off if you’re making blind jokes. I’ll check on you later, okay?”

“Yeah. Thanks, Fogs.”

Matt closed his eyes. He would rest for just a minute and then he’d track down Castle.

He didn’t even hear Foggy leave.

* * *

Frank ached a little the next day. Nothing extreme, just a sign that he was maybe getting old. He went off to his day job - the so-called legitimate one, the one that actually brought in some cash - then grabbed some takeout and went home. He’d mostly finished eating when… okay, it sounded like somebody was beating down his door, so of course Frank got a gun before he looked through the peephole.

Red. The fuck? How did he even know where Frank lived? But he looked like he was going to fall over, so Frank unlocked the door and let him in.

“Fuck are you doing here?” he asked, using anger to cover the relief that he felt at seeing Red alive. “How did you get this address?” Red didn’t come in, so Frank pulled him into the apartment and closed the door. Wouldn’t do for the neighbors to see him associating with a lawyer, after all; Red had dressed down but he still kind of radiated Truth and Justice.

He flipped the locks out of habit and Red tensed. “I just came to talk.”

“You can leave now if you want,” Frank said, pointedly unlocking the door and then setting aside the gun. “Not like I’m keeping you here.”

Red didn’t move to leave. Damn, he looked like shit, so Frank said, “Sit down before you fall down. There’s a chair in front of you, maybe three steps.” Frank carefully didn’t think about what was under Red’s shirt. Not the injury and _definitely_ not the abs.

Red tipped his head in Frank’s direction for a moment, then shoved his hands in his pockets and stayed upright, the stubborn little shit. “Why have you been going to St. Agnes?”

That was why he was there? Frank hadn’t been expecting flowers or anything, but a thank you would have been good manners. “Helping out. Odds and ends. They had a nun who was doing it, but she got old.”

Red’s expression tightened, and he shook his head. “No, why _St. Agnes_? There are plenty of places you could go, if you’re feeling charitable.” Red’s tone implied that he wasn’t sure that was why Frank was doing it.

“Because the nun asked me over for Irish coffee, and I saw that stuff needed doing, so I did it. Why the fuck do you care, huh? Not like it’s any skin off your nose if those kids have a toilet they can flush.”

“The nun… Maggie? _Maggie_ asked you over for Irish coffee?” Red sounded like Frank had just said they’d had Irish coffee on the moon.

“ _Sister_ Maggie, yeah,” Frank said pointedly, and Red scoffed. Maybe Red didn’t think he should speak respectfully of nuns. Who the fuck had raised him, anyway?

“Sister Maggie,” Red echoed, his tone wry. “So how did you meet her?”

“We both wanted the last bottle of Kilbeggan at Pop’s.”

Red looked for a moment like he wanted to argue, but then hesitated, his eyebrows lifting over the rims of his glasses in a way that felt oddly familiar. “My dad drank Kilbeggan. Pop’s was around back then, and he’d send me to pick up a bottle sometimes.”

Sister Maggie had said the whiskey reminded her of someone. Huh.

“Pop’s never was good about carding,” Frank observed. “So I let her have it, and she asked me back for coffee, and…” Frank shrugged, then added, “Just kind of happened.” He wasn’t sure what Red could perceive. Obviously, there was something going on there, but whether he could tell if Frank shrugged, Frank didn’t know.

Red fidgeted a little. “Well, it can stop happening.”

“Excuse me?”

“You. Going to St. Agnes. That can stop happening, starting now.”

Now, Frank was pretty sure that was how things were going to go. The nun knew who he was now, and she wasn’t going to want him there. Still, he wasn’t just going to agree. Not when Red was the one saying those words. “Don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

Red’s jaw did that thing where it bunched up like he was clenching it, not that Frank noticed that sort of thing. “It’s absolutely my business, and you’re going to stay away.”

Frank scoffed. “You can barely stand up on your own and you think you can tell me what to do?”

Red stood up a little straighter, though it seemed like it took some effort. “Didn’t have any problems leaving you out cold on a roof not too long ago.”

Now Frank’s jaw was probably doing that bunching thing, because his teeth ached a little with how tight they were against each other. “You know what? Fuck you, Red. I do what I want.” And maybe next time Red would be the one out cold on a roof.

“If I hear you’ve been at St. Agnes…”

“You’ll what? Fight me in front of all those kids and nuns? That’s some pretty poor role-modeling, Counselor,” Frank taunted.

“Of course not,” Red replied, his tone withering.

Frank stepped closer. He saw Red become aware of his nearness and tense up a little, and kind of enjoyed the reaction. He dropped his voice a little deeper as he asked, “So then what’re you gonna do?”

Red inhaled sharply and didn’t answer. Frank smirked and stepped back. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Get out.”

Red straightened his tie, as if that was going to help. “You’re enjoying this a little too much, Castle.”

What? No, he wasn’t. “Fuck off, Red. I don’t like this, you thinking you can tell me what to do. I don’t like anything about it, especially not you.”

He opened the door and fortunately Red, who was looking a little puzzled, took himself out.

“You’re welcome,” Frank called after him. Red paused and turned, the curve of his eyebrows just visible over his glasses. “For saving your sorry ass. That ever happens again, I’ll just leave you there.”

Well, no, he wouldn’t. Not if Red got shot again because of him. But Red didn’t need to know that.

“You saved me?” Red asked, tone disbelieving. “Yeah? How’d I get shot in the first place?”

Fuck. Did he know it was Frank’s fault? How did he know? “Well, when you go pick a fight with drug dealers, what do you expect is going to happen?”

Red shook his head and turned to go. Still no thank you.

Frank closed his door behind Red and then locked it. Fuck. Hopefully the neighbors hadn’t heard, though at least Red wasn’t looking as lawyerly; the Columbia sweatshirt suggested that maybe he’d actually stayed home from work.

As Frank finished off his dinner - now cold, thanks to Red - he realized that he still didn’t know how Red had tracked him down. He’d looked a little squirrelly when Frank had asked, too.

“Fuck him,” Frank muttered, taking another mouthful of cold food.

It was extremely unsatisfying.

* * *

Matt braced himself against the wall at the bottom of the stairs to Castle’s apartment, breathing hard. Of course, Castle lived on an upper floor of a walk-up. No luxuries like elevators for Frank Castle.

Matt needed to rest, to meditate, but just at that moment, he needed to think. Castle’s heartbeat - usually regular and steady, and distinctive enough that Matt had used it to track him down - had been all over the place during their conversation. And right before Matt had left, Castle had lied to him.

Matt took a deep breath and started walking back to his place, not wanting to draw attention by lingering at Castle’s. What had they been talking about when Castle had lied? Matt’s focus had primarily been on remaining upright, so he had paid less attention than perhaps he should have to the actual words he and Castle had exchanged.

Castle had said he didn’t like Matt telling him what to do, which… well, that was clearly the truth. And he’d liked getting close to Matt; that had been obvious.

And Matt? Matt was glad that Castle didn’t have the same heightened senses he did. Because when Castle had gotten close to him and then when he’d spoken in that deeper voice, Matt had not been unaffected.

He didn’t _like_ that he had, in that moment, been kind of turned on. It was biology, that was all. Matt acknowledged that he had a type and that Castle had pushed some rather pleasant buttons just then, but that was as far as it was going to go.

No, what Matt needed to do was to figure out how he was going to keep Castle away from St. Agnes. Turning him in to the cops was still off the table, because of the whole life-saving thing… which Matt realized he hadn’t even mentioned, hadn’t even said thanks when Castle had brought it up. Shit, talk about rude. But Castle had acted weird about that, too; his heart rate had gone up when Matt had asked how he’d gotten shot. Matt almost turned to go back, but knew that he couldn’t handle one more moment of Castle just then.

Or, well, maybe he could… handle it, depending on how Castle was acting, but… no. Definitely not. It had been a while, that was all. It was just biology.

No, he was going to get some food - whatever Castle had been eating had smelled good - and then he was going to rest and meditate before he went out that night.

Matt followed his nose and found a restaurant a block away whose food matched what Castle had been eating. A quick chat with the cashier gave Matt the information that the ingredients were all organic and that whole grains and lean proteins were on the menu. And they even had a Braille menu, which was refreshing. Who would have thought that Castle was into healthy eating? Matt ordered a macro bowl to go, hold the curly kale. Yeah, this place was a keeper.

Matt went home and enjoyed the macro bowl, then settled down to meditate. He couldn’t focus, though. He kept thinking about Castle at St. Agnes, talking to Maggie, joking with the kids… stepping closer to Matt, his heart beating that reassuring thump-thump. Finally, he gave up, annoyed and frustrated, just as a knock sounded on the door.

“It’s me, Matty. You still alive in there?”

Matt smiled and opened the door. “Hey, Fogs.”

“You’re looking better. No visible blood, always a plus.”

“Feeling better, thanks. I’ll be back at work tomorrow for sure.”

Foggy made a vaguely skeptical noise.

“I will. Want a beer?”

“Absolutely.”

Matt went to get a beer then, after a moment of hesitation, grabbed one for himself as well. He’d stay in that night; the meditation hadn’t done as much as he would have liked, anyway. Look at him, making responsible choices! It wasn’t just that he wanted to drink.

He offered one of the beers to Foggy, who asked, as he took it, “Should you be having that?”

“Why not?”

“Well, painkillers and alcohol… oh, wait. Even though you were bleeding this morning due to whatever happened - what did happen, by the way? - you’re not taking painkillers. Why am I not surprised?”

Matt grinned as he opened the beer, lifting it in salute in Foggy’s general direction. “Painkiller.”

“Y’know, using alcohol as a painkiller, definitely not a good sign.”

“I was kidding, Fogs. Just drinking to socialize.”

“In your apartment.”

“With my best friend!”

Matt could practically hear Foggy’s eye roll in his sigh, but he sat down on the couch. Apparently, he sat near the remains of Matt’s dinner, as he asked, “Are you… eating healthy? Who even are you?”

Matt shook his head as he sat down next to Foggy. “Macrobiotic place. I think it’s new.”

“Macrobiotic?” Foggy echoed. “Where is there a macrobiotic place around here?” Matt told him. “Huh. What were you doing there?”

Matt hesitated. He’d been skirting the truth with Foggy, ignoring questions when he didn’t want to answer them. But he knew that if he told Foggy that he’d gone to confront Frank Castle, Foggy’s reaction would not be great. “Uh. Daredevil stuff.”

Which it was, if only because Matt had been in Daredevil mode when Castle had, for whatever reason, saved him.

Why _had_ Castle saved him? What had even happened? Matt wanted to know, but he didn’t want to ask.

“… Matt?”

“What? Sorry, just thinking about something.”

“I asked if it was the same Daredevil stuff that had you bleeding through your shirt today.”

“Uh. Yeah.” Matt took a swig of his beer and, yeah, there wasn’t enough alcohol in it to even remotely dull the throbbing ache that Castle’s stairs had ignited in his side. “But I’m fine, Fogs. Or I will be,” he amended, hearing Foggy clear his throat to argue that statement. “Maggie took care of me.”

“Well, if you were together enough to get yourself to Maggie afterward, it must not be too bad.”

Matt took another drink.

He kind of wanted to talk to Foggy about what had happened, which was an odd sensation. But he knew that bringing up Frank Castle would unsettle Foggy at the very least. So he kept the conversation casual and reassured Foggy that he was fine, really, and that he was staying in that evening. Foggy left in what seemed like a good, if suspicious mood. Matt didn’t blame him.

But he did as he’d decided and didn’t go out. Instead, he called Maggie to reassure her that he was fine and ignored her when she replied, “Really? By whose standards?”

And then he went to bed. Sleep was healing, right? He even managed to sleep a reasonable amount.

Sometimes he could still see in his dreams. Usually his dreams focused on his other senses and tended to be very tactile, but that night he could see while he slept. He stood on a rooftop, presumably in the Kitchen; the landscape below was blurred and indistinct, all shades of blue and brown. He heard someone approaching him, but found that he couldn’t move.

The footsteps grew closer and the accompanying heartbeat grew so loud as to encompass Matt’s whole world. Despite the thundering in his ears he still heard, clear as a bell, the deep voice whispering, “ _Red_.”

He startled awake, his heart pounding.

* * *

Frank startled awake, his heart pounding. He could only remember scraps of the dream, but for once he hadn’t watched Maria and the kids die. He’d take it. The dream still unsettled him, though, for reasons he couldn’t quite place.

He rolled over and saw light coming through the cracks in his shade. Morning, but early from the look of it. Still, he knew he wouldn’t get back to sleep, so he got out of bed and got some coffee going. While he waited for it to brew, he arranged his guns on his low table, carefully checking over each one.

Maria had teased him when he’d done this, asked if cleaning his guns had been a metaphor for something else. And, okay, sometimes it had been. But it was relaxing. Reassuring. He liked to know that his tools were in order.

He’d never gotten them all out at once back then, though. Not with the kids around. Hell, he hadn’t even had half as many guns, back then. He’d take them out one at a time, careful to keep the rest locked up. Sometimes Frankie would watch, or Lisa would say, “Will you teach me how to shoot, Daddy?”

“Sure,” he’d always replied. He’d said he’d take both of them, and never mind that side-eye from Maria; it was a good skill to have. But somehow he’d never gotten around to it, and now? Yeah, too late.

Some of the dream came back to him as he worked: dark hair, his own hands touching scarred skin.

When he realized just who he’d been dreaming about, he - well, no, of course, he didn’t drop the pistol he was cleaning. He’d never do that. But he had to stop what he was doing, because _really_? Red? What the fuck was wrong with him, dreaming about _Red_?

He’d been - not glad to see Red, no, but maybe a little relieved that he hadn’t died, after all. Frank still felt a little guilty about his part in what had happened. That was the Catholicism talking, though.

Thinking about Catholicism naturally made his brain go to St. Agnes, to the kids and the nuns. Red had seemed pretty bent out of shape that Frank had been there. Frank wasn’t sure what Sister Maggie had told him, but obviously, information had been shared. Frank hadn’t asked how Red knew Sister Maggie, but, really, with a guy like Altar Boy it wasn’t a tough question. He probably went to mass every day.

Mass, that was a thought. Frank could go to mass at Clinton Church the next day and figure out the situation.

It would be like recon.

Frank shook his head at the thought, almost laughed. If he’d been able to frame it like that as a kid, maybe he would have enjoyed mass.

It was absolutely not that he thought it might be a neutral sort of spot to see Red, maybe without him noticing.

Frank had always sat in the back, after all.

The next day, Frank frowned over his wardrobe. He didn’t exactly have a lot of church appropriate clothing. After a little hunting, he found the suit he’d worn to court shoved in the back of his tiny closet. Still didn’t have a tie. Ties reminded him too much of Fathers Day; Maria had thought it was funny to have the kids get him such a stereotypical gift, but Lisa and Frankie, well, their taste in ties was not what you would call subtle. He’d worn them to church and to weddings and the like, though, because his kids had gotten them for him.

So… no tie. That was fine. He’d sit in the back; people probably wouldn’t even notice he was there. He checked the Clinton Church website again to make sure that he had the time right, and set off walking so that he’d arrive just as the service was starting.

Frank stepped into the church and took a moment just to accustom himself to the place, the scent of incense washing over him. Almost automatically, he stepped over to the font and dipped in his fingers, crossing himself; he shook his head with a rueful smile. How many years had it been since he’d been in a church? But he still went right back to old habits. A little self-conscious, he slipped into the back pew, turning his attention toward the priest.

 _Recon,_ he reminded himself. He scanned the congregation. There were several of the kids from the orphanage sitting near the front, with nuns to keep them in line. It was hard to tell who was there; Frank thought he saw Sister Maggie, though she wasn’t with the kids but instead with another nun. And there, about midway back, a familiar head turned a bit in Frank’s direction.

Frank resisted the urge to slip down in his seat; it wasn’t like Red could see him, after all. Red’s head turned a bit more, but then he seemed to return his attention to the priest. Good.

Frank didn’t really listen to the priest. He did say the responses, though, and was surprised by how many of them he remembered.

Damn, maybe he was still Catholic after all.

Frank’s attention shifted between Sister Maggie and Red, and occasionally to the kids. He was too far back to see much of what they were doing, but he figured the little ones were probably fidgeting, likely bored. Poor kids. Frank could relate.

Red’s head kept turning. Some Catholic he was.

When the time came for Communion, Frank stayed in his seat, which got him a look from the little old lady in the pew in front of him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone to Confession, though, so no Communion.

Funny, he had no problem killing dirtbags, but taking Communion when he knew he wasn’t in a state of grace? Not going to happen. Guess it still mattered a little.

Sister Maggie occasionally leaned in to say something to the nun sitting next to her; at one point, she turned and caught Frank watching her. He was close enough to see the way her eyes widened.

Fuck. Frank looked away, then got to his feet. The little old lady in the pew in front of him shot him a nasty look, but Frank wasn’t about to stay and let Sister Maggie tell him to leave.

Recon or not, going to mass had been a mistake.

* * *

Matt settled back in his usual pew as he waited for mass to begin. He hurt, but less than he had been, so the meditation he’d managed this morning had been good for something.

Everything was just about to start when Matt heard a familiar heartbeat. With all the people in Clinton Church, he was almost surprised that he could pick it out over all the others, but Frank Castle’s heartbeat had a steadiness to it that stood out. He turned his head a little to focus better, and Castle’s heartbeat jumped for a moment; he must have noticed Matt’s movement. Always a soldier, Matt guessed.

Matt tried to focus, but Castle’s presence behind him put him on edge. What was he doing there? Matt had told him to stay away, and the very next day he showed up to mass at Clinton Church. What the hell? Frank Castle was not a regular churchgoer; Matt knew that without even asking him.

The more he thought about it, the more pissed off he got. Castle, here, in _his_ place. Matt could all but feel Castle’s eyes on him. After a few minutes, he didn’t even try to listen to the priest. He got it together enough that he could go up for Communion. Castle stayed in his seat for that, which Matt grudgingly appreciated.

Near the end of the service, Castle’s heart rate skyrocketed and then he left.

Well. Good. Matt would have a word with him later, see if he could find out what the hell Castle had been doing there. If he’d found God… well, that would be a good thing. But if he was just there to fuck with Matt, that was an issue and Matt would have to deal with it.

Matt made small talk with the parishioners once the service was over; he’d decided to wait until the sanctuary cleared out a little bit, as it made leaving easier. Eventually, Maggie made her way over to the pew where he sat. “I’ll see you later, Connie,” she said, before adding to Matt, “How are you feeling?”

“Not bad.”

“Do you need me to check your stitches?” Matt made a brief, negative noise, and Maggie added, “Did you notice who was here?”

Matt couldn’t help a small double-take at how pleased she sounded. “Are you kidding me?”

Maggie exhaled a short, exasperated sound. “Are you five? Matthew, how could it be bad that he came to church?”

Was she really that naive? “Well, it depends on why he came, right?” Not particularly wanting to have the conversation in the middle of the church, he got to his feet and unfolded his cane. Maggie went with him out the side door. Matt turned back to her, adding quietly, “What if he’d come to kill somebody here?”

“Matthew,” Maggie chided.

“It’s not out of the realm of possibility!”

“ _Matthew_.”

“Do you know how many people he’s killed?”

“No, but how many of them were in a church?” Matt turned away, scoffing, and Maggie added, “I don’t know why you have such a problem with him.”

Matt took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Because,” he said through clenched teeth, “he has killed people. Lots of them.”

Maggie was silent for a moment. When she spoke, her tone was brisk. “Do you think that I’ve forgotten that since the last time you said it? I really don’t see the need to have this conversation again. We clearly disagree here and I don’t think either of us has much chance of changing the other’s mind.”

“What’s it going to take?” Matt asked, exasperated. “For him to kill more people?”

“Goodbye, Matthew.”

And then she just left. Matt resisted the urge to throw his cane. How could she not listen to him when he was so clearly right? Castle was dangerous.

But as Matt walked back to his apartment - perfectly normal walking, not stomping at all - he couldn’t help but remember that moment at Frank’s apartment when he got close, and then that dream.

He was going to have to talk to Castle, definitely. But not just then. Not until he got a handle on himself, and maybe a cold shower.

* * *

Frank had been expecting the knock. Hell, he’d almost gone somewhere else after mass, so Red wouldn’t be able to come give him grief, but then he’d thought a little more about arguing with Red and decided to head home instead.

So when the knock finally came, Frank was resigned as he went to open the door, but also kind of looking forward to the impending fight. It was messed up, but that was Frank. He and Maria had gotten into fights back in the day - never physical, but Maria could argue like the best of them - and those fights tended to end… well. That was how they’d gotten Frankie. Kind of explained a lot about Frankie’s personality, now that Frank thought about it.

Frank tried to think of some good put-downs as he opened the door. “Don’t you have anything better to do than -?”

Sister Maggie stood on the other side of the door. Shit. Shit. “Uh, sorry, Sister. I was expecting, uh, somebody else.”

Had she gotten so pissed off at seeing him at the church that she’d come here to tell him so? And what was it with people figuring out where he lived?

She just smiled, which was weird when he was expecting her to yell at him. “I hope Matthew hasn’t been harassing you.”

 _Matthew_ , was it? Interesting. “Nothing I can’t handle,” Frank replied. “Uh, is everything okay?” What was she doing there in his hallway? Was he supposed to invite her in? His brain spun in place and he couldn’t really quite get past that residual Catholic school panic of encountering a nun where one usually didn’t see a nun. She glanced at the door and made a little noise of inquiry, so he pulled the door open a little more. “Um. Come in.”

Shit. He’d just asked a nun into his apartment, and… okay, no, his underwear had landed in the hamper. His bed was made, and Frank was briefly grateful the Marines had drilled that into him. There were still some dishes in the sink, but surely that wouldn’t be a big deal.

Sister Maggie came in and Frank could see her taking in everything. Yeah, his place was small and kind of a dump, but it was cheap and nobody who lived there asked any questions.

“Did you enjoy mass this morning?”

Frank wished she would just get to it, not beat around the bush. When Red had told him to stay away, it had pissed him off, but the sister kind of had a right to ask. So he wanted her to get it over with, not stand around making chit-chat.

“Well, to be honest, I wasn’t really paying attention.”

Sister Maggie laughed a little and shook her head. “Probably that’s what many of our parishioners would say if they were honest in answering the question. But I was glad to see you there. It’s a good first step.”

Frank managed not to double-take. “You… what?” Had she forgotten about the vest? Frank was pretty sure Red had had some head injuries that could explain such a memory lapse, but he didn’t think that was the case for the nun.

“I was glad to see you there,” she repeated, her voice steady and even, and Frank had a sudden memory of a nature documentary, and some guy talking just like that to a wild animal. Well, that wasn’t too far off, he guessed. He was feeling a little wild, a little off-kilter. Maybe that showed in his face, because the nun added, “Everyone is welcome at Clinton Church.”

Frank scoffed. “Not what I heard.” But he felt the stirrings of hope. Maybe he’d be able to go help out at the orphanage after all. There was still a lot that needed to be done.

Sister Maggie shook her head, her expression a bit wry. “Matthew?” Frank hesitated over ratting him out, then nodded. Not like it could be anyone else, after all. “Matthew,” the nun said briskly, “does not speak for the church.”

“Maybe somebody ought to tell him that.”

“I’ll make sure he doesn’t bother you about that anymore,” Sister Maggie said, a snap to her tone, and Frank almost felt sorry for Red. Almost. But who was Sister Maggie to Red that she thought she could get him to listen?

“Uh, good luck with that, Sister.”

Sister Maggie smiled, but it was not exactly a pleasant smile. “He’ll listen.”

“Okay, then. Well, thank you.” Frank still had his doubts.

The nun’s smile softened a little. “And I hope I don’t need to say that you’re welcome at St. Agnes as well. I don’t see that list getting shorter any time soon.”

Frank hesitated. “Are you sure? Knowing who I am?”

“Knowing who you are, yes,” Sister Maggie replied firmly, and Frank’s throat went a little tight. “You’ve done nothing but good for St. Agnes.”

Frank cleared his throat, but he suspected his voice sounded husky as he said, “Well, thank you.” He gestured toward the lone chair at his table. “Don’t think I have any maple syrup, but can I make you some coffee?”

Sister Maggie sat at his table and smiled. “That would be lovely.”

That evening, Frank finally decided to go to the higher level drug dealer that his reluctant informant had given him. He’d been busy with his day job and - okay, kind of moping about the orphanage situation. But since Sister Maggie had come to talk to him, that was no longer an issue. They’d had a pleasant chat; he’d found out how she, at least, had found his apartment: she’d asked at Pop’s. Joey, the kid who worked the register, was related to one of Frank’s neighbors and had been around a few times; he’d probably thought that telling a nun where Frank lived was okay.

Sister Maggie had reiterated before she left that she was going to have a talk with Red. Frank would like to be a fly on the wall for that conversation. But, really, long as Red stopped giving him shit about the orphanage, Frank didn’t really care how it happened.

So he put it out of his mind, geared up, and headed for the address that his informant had given him. He hadn’t even made it to the closest cross-street when he heard a familiar voice call his name. He turned and, of course, there was Red coming from the alley, wearing the black getup and already holding a baton. Frank stepped off the sidewalk and into the alley.

“What the fuck do you want?”

“You gunning for Milo Jonas?”

Frank sighed. “Yeah. Let me guess: you don’t want me to.”

“Mahoney’s team is picking him up tomorrow, maybe the day after.”

“Not if I kill him tonight.”

Red shook his head and moved to place himself between Frank and the alley’s exit.

“Seriously?” Frank asked. “Bet you’re still hurting from getting shot, and you want to go after me? And the guy who shot you? Jonas is his boss. Don’t you want him to pay for what he did to you?”

“Jonas didn’t shoot me,” Red replied, his tone even. “But the guy who did, he’s dead, right?”

“Uh. Yeah.”

“Then he paid. He paid more than he should have. Jonas doesn’t need to die.”

Frank sighed. “Yeah, he does.” He took a step forward and Red moved to meet him, baton already raised.

The fight was short but vicious; Frank didn’t hold back, and he was pretty sure Red didn’t, either. Red seemed to be holding his own, even maybe had the upper hand until Frank thought, _Fuck it, I’m not going to lose again_ and punched Red right where he knew there were stitches.

Red doubled over in pain, dropping one of his batons, but he’d rebounded and was upright again before Frank had managed to do more than pick up the baton. Frank shoved Red hard, and he ended up against the wall of one of the buildings making up the side of the alley. Red still hunched over a little, breathing hard, and Frank used the tip of the baton to lift his head.

Red’s jaw tightened; he clearly recognized that it was his own weapon being used against him. He turned his head a little to the side and spat some red-tinged saliva, but he still appeared to have all his teeth. Frank had a brief, wild thought of asking around, seeing if Jack Murdock had died with all his teeth. Maybe it was genetic; Frank couldn’t think of any other way Red still had all his pearly whites.

Frank, still a little pissed off about the exchange between him and Red back at his place, yanked off Red’s mask. There was a twitch of protest from Red, but maybe he could tell that nobody was there, because he didn’t reach for it. He looked different without the mask or the glasses, with his face all bare. Younger, maybe. Still pissed off, though, and Frank had split open one of his eyebrows.

“Now before there was talk of you not _letting_ me do something,” he said, thinking back to the rooftop encounter where Red had knocked him out. “Don’t think that’s the case today.”

“Castle - _Frank_.” Frank dug in a little with the tip of the baton, right in the spot under Red’s chin, but he continued, “Jonas can redeem himself.”

“Yeah?” Frank asked, his voice gone bitter.

“Yeah.”

“This drug dealer, this piece of filth, he can be a good person?”

“Yeah.” Red edged back a little and Frank eased off with the baton but moved in closer. Red was breathing a little hard from the fight; hell, so was Frank. They were pretty evenly matched. Still, it seemed like Red was breathing a little harder when Frank moved closer.

Maybe Frank was, too.

“So why can’t I?”

“What?” That seemed to catch Red off-guard. He turned - not to look at Frank, obviously, but in his direction, his brows arching in a way that again caught at Frank’s attention. Why was it so familiar?

“You keep wanting me not to kill drug dealers, but you’re telling me to stay away from the orphanage, from Sister Maggie.” Red’s face did a thing, and suddenly it clicked for Frank. The eyebrows, yeah, something about the face. “What is she, your aunt?”

Red’s face went still. It was a lot easier to read him without the mask or the glasses. Go figure. “No. Not my aunt.”

“She’s got to be something to you. You’re protective of her, and you know she can take care of herself.”

“Yeah, she can.” That got a small smile from Red, and Frank couldn’t help but smile in return. Red looked different when he smiled, when it wasn’t a cocky grin. Frank kind of…

Wait.

No.

 _No_.

Frank started to realize why he hadn’t been able to get Red out of his head. It wasn’t just that Red kept pissing him off.

Oh, _shit_.

“What?” Red asked. He shoved the baton away from his throat, but Frank didn’t even try to stop him. He was too busy reeling with his new realization. “Frank. Your heart did a thing, and - uh.” He looked… curious, maybe. Pleased. Cocky, the smug little bastard. Did he _know_?

“You can hear my heart?”

“Enhanced senses.”

Red stepped closer, now. The baton slid from Frank’s hand and clattered to the ground. He could tell his heart was beating faster, now; he could practically feel it in his whole body.

God. Red was so close now. Frank wanted to… he didn’t even know what he wanted. Well, no, he _did_. He just didn’t want to admit it. He didn’t know what Red wanted, either.

Frank almost laughed. Sure, they’d been beating each other up in an alley, presumably without consent, but he didn’t want to just leap in and do what he suddenly _really_ wanted.

Maybe Red realized his dilemma, because he said, his voice low and rough, “Go ahead.”

Frank leaned in close. His mouth inches from Red’s, he realized that he’d never gotten an answer to his question, so he asked, “Redemption?”

“There’s redemption for everybody, Frank, if you want it.”

That was the thing, though; Frank wasn’t sure that he wanted it. Despite how natural mass had felt, Frank didn’t want anything to do with a God who would take his family away from him. But Red believed he could be redeemed, and that was important to Red. It mattered to Frank, too: that Red thought he could become a good person. Wasn’t going to happen, but it was important that Red believed it.

“Okay,” Frank said, easing a hair closer. But he still had one more question. “And St. Agnes?”

“You should keep going. Maggie… she can handle herself. She’s…” Red inhaled a breath. “We’ll talk about it later. Not right now.” With Red so close, Frank honestly didn’t want to do any more in the way of talking. Still, he added, “But you wouldn’t hurt her or the kids, right?”

“Of course not.” Red shouldn’t have to ask. Hurt kids, nuns? Well, maybe nuns, but only if they were evil, corrupted, drug-dealing nuns, something like that.

It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. Religion wasn’t a guarantee of goodness, after all.

But he had the answer that he wanted, which meant an end to the talking, at least for the moment. Frank leaned in that final inch and kissed Red, his hand sliding behind Red’s head to pull him closer. By the time they separated, Frank was positive his heart was doing all kinds of things, and Red’s shirt had been pushed up just enough for Frank to see the fresh blood staining the gauze pad.

“Looks like you maybe popped some stitches.” Frank felt a little bad, but not much. If Red wasn’t able to handle a fight, he shouldn’t be out fighting.

“Wonder how that happened,” Red said, with a hint of a smirk. “Not a big deal, but could you give me a hand getting back to my place? I can take care of it, but I want to make sure I can get there okay.”

“Sure, no problem.”

Frank scooped up the baton and shoved the mask into Red’s hands.

It wasn’t until they were back at Red’s place that Frank realized that he’d been entirely derailed from killing Jonas; Red hadn’t needed as much help as he’d implied, and he’d gotten Frank to focus on him instead of on killing Jonas. Sneaky son of a bitch, but Frank didn’t mind too much. He thought about going back out to finish the job but then decided to put it off. He could go out in the early morning, or maybe Mahoney would take that extra day.

There was time, and he found he didn’t want to kill anyone just then.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art Masterpost for State of Grace by PixelByPixel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22895245) by [velociraptorerin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/velociraptorerin/pseuds/velociraptorerin)




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